Cleaning out my files, I found an article I started writing in July of 2003:
My husband and I traveled to India this last winter for a whirlwind tour of his parents’ native country. After watching Rajasthani dancers perform in the courtyard of our hotel, a mysterious-looking gentleman in a turban called us to his table. He promised to tell my fortune simply by reading the lines in my hands.
After asking my birth date and a few questions, he went to work scrutinizing my palm. Yellow was my color, he pronounced. (It’s blue, I thought). My best numbers were 3, 11, 24, and 30. (I prefer 7, actually). April would be a good month for me. (I guess it was ok). My career would take off when I turned 30. (Really? Cool!)
I kept the notes he had written for a few days, then decided it was all hogwash and threw it away. But the last part stuck with me. Would my career really take off when I turned 30?
I never did finish the article, and I have no idea what I intended to write. My 30th birthday passed the month before, and a month after, I would be pregnant. Our daughter would die at birth. A few months later, I would start work on Brimstone Soup.
And I know somehow all of these things are connected - Ezri's death and the story and living 30 years spun into the same web, so that maybe I can't see the whys, but I can see the what now.
It's all very curious, in hindsight, and tentative in the present. I wish I could see the what next. I do know that nothing is wasted, and we must walk forward with a modicum of trust. Trust in a turbaned palm reader? Maybe. But more in the web, in myself.
Trust that nothing is wasted.